At least Tom knew where he was. Tom would come running.
And probably end up dead himself.
Cicero focused on the little spot of warmth that had ignited behind his heart, when he’d kissed Tom’s eyelids and used his magic. “If they catch me, go to the MWP,” he thought at it. “Don’t try to save me yourself, or we’ll both end up in danger. Sloane probably won’t just kill me out of hand.”
Probably.
He felt Tom’s shock, distantly, through the partial bond. “Cicero? Is that you?”
“Do you usually hear voices in your head? Of course it’s me.”
“Be careful.”
Cicero didn’t dignify that with an answer. The door to the cellar hadn’t quite latched, and he nudged it open a crack with his head. Thank heavens the hinges didn’t squeal. He slithered through the narrow gap and found himself at the top of a flight of rickety stairs. The only light came from a single gas jet, but that was more than enough for him to make out details in this form.
The cellar contained a row of large kegs, accompanied by crates of liquor and glassware. A stack of wooden boxes had been shoved to one side, revealing a low doorway.
What was Sloane involved in? Some sort of tunnel gang?
Sloane and the other man stood by the door leading out of the cellar. “Thank you for doing your part for the cause,” the stranger said, hefting a satchel.
“Sloane took the satchel out of the safe,” Cicero told Tom, who likely wouldn’t have seen it from beneath the desk.
Sloane nodded. “Just make sure Mr. Janowski knows to hold up his end of the deal.”
The other fellow didn’t seem happy. “Karol will come through,” he snapped. “As will we all.”
“I’m sure you will.” Sloane started to turn away, then stopped. “I want the rest of those hexes at least two days before.”
He made for the stairs.
Oh hell.
Cicero bolted out the cracked door with all the speed he could summon.
“What was that?” the stranger called.
Damn it. Curse the bloody luck.
Sloane’s voice grew fainter as Cicero put distance between them. “A rat,” he said…but was that doubt in his voice?
Would Sloane be able to smell him?
He could feel Tom’s worry, like a scratch at the back of his mind. “I don’t think he saw me,” Cicero said, hoping to convince them both. “A black cat in the shadows, and his eyes would have been blinded from the gaslight. And there are a lot of rats here—I can smell them.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Cicero reached the dressing room without being seen. Once there, he shifted back into human form. The sense of Tom watching from over his shoulder vanished, since it only worked when the familiar was in animal shape.
Cicero leaned against the chair, fighting to get his breathing back under control. If Sloane realized it was him…
But there was no sound of pursuit. No angry shouts. Just the ordinary noises of the resort on a busy night.
And now they had a name. Karol was Karol Janowski. Surely it would make finding him easier.
Sloane was waiting on more hexes—but which ones? The absinthe hexes, or something else?
And was it Isaac’s magic that would power them?
Cicero closed his eyes, remembering the broken chain, the abandoned necklace. He’d have to get it back from Tom, carry it with him when he could. So he could give it back to Isaac as soon as they found him.
“Don’t worry, darling,” he whispered to the empty air. “I’m coming for you. Just hold on a little longer.”
Tom ached with weariness when he climbed the steps back to his apartment an hour before dawn.
It seemed they’d been lucky after all. Neither Sloane nor Kearney had acted as if they suspected anything, and Cicero’s final performance of the night had come and gone without incident. He’d dithered about after, chatting with the other performers, then met Tom once his shift finished.
Tom had handed over the hexes and necklace, once they were far enough away from the Rooster. “So what did you think about tonight, Thomas?” Cicero asked, tucking the hexes away in his coat. The necklace went into a separate pocket.
What part did he mean? The kiss? Looking through his eyes?
“I thought it started well enough,” Tom said.
“I certainly can’t argue with that assessment.” Cicero shot him a sly look from beneath his lashes. “I do love a man who works with his hands, you know.”
Tom snorted. “You love to hear the sound of your own voice, you mean.”
“Because I’m so terribly interesting, darling.” Cicero tossed his head. “I meant the other sort of magic, though.”
Tom considered. “If I hadn’t been so worried for you, it would have been amazing,” he said at last. “You really see the world different when you’re a cat, don’t you? Not much in the way of color, I mean, but it seemed so clear. Scared me half to death, thinking Sloane would be able to see you easy, before I realized you were actually in the shadows and the cellar just looked bright.”
“Sorry for the shock.” Cicero paused, then glanced up again. “Well. I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
The desire to kiss him again seized Tom, so overwhelming it stole his breath. Maybe the look on his face betrayed him, because Cicero’s eyes widened ever so slightly, and his lips parted.
But they were on the street, and it wasn’t possible. Cicero’s mouth twisted into a wry smile, and he gave Tom a little wave. Then he was gone, a black cat lost in the night almost as fast as Tom could blink.
It was insane to spend too much time thinking about Cicero, Tom told himself as he walked up to his apartment. God willing, they’d find the evidence needed to expose Sloane, stop whatever he was involved in, and locate the missing Isaac. Then Tom would return to his beat, and Cicero would find his witch, and they’d never see each other again.
The thought left loneliness in its wake. He’d miss the familiar’s sharp smiles and teasing humor. The way he held himself, so perfect and poised—until something softer would show through unexpectedly.
The way he’d come apart in Tom’s hands earlier tonight, gasping and writhing, all that poise surrendered at least for a moment.
The memory roused him as he unlocked his door. He’d think about it again, as soon as he fell into bed, put his hand to his prick, and imagined—
The opening door sent something scuttling across the floor. Tom bent down and retrieved a folded piece of paper. Someone must have shoved it under his door. He lit the gaslight, shut the door, and unfolded the paper.
In large, blocky letters it read: I KNOW WHO YOU REALLY ARE.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do this much work,” Greta said the next day. She sat back in her chair, feet propped on a box of catnip she’d shamelessly stolen from one of the Brooklyn familiars.
Cicero glanced up in annoyance. He’d staggered out of bed at an indecent hour, so he could spend the morning sorting through the MWP rogues gallery. He’d checked back three years with no luck. Karol Janowski didn’t appear anywhere in their list of known criminals, or in any easily accessible file. The sheer tedium of the work made him want to curl up and take a nap, and let someone else do it for him.
Except there wasn’t anyone else, certainly not so close to the Greater New York consolidation. Those who didn’t have cases of their own were busy planning security for the gun salute at the Battery. The regular police would have men at the celebration and along the parade route, but heaven forbid they coordinate their forces.
Most of the witches would sneer at the idea of working with the ordinary police. Corrupt thugs all, according to their way of thinking.
And, yes, maybe Cicero had thought the same way just a few days ago, before Tom Halloran barged into his life and disrupted everything.
“I’m trying to find Isaac,” Cicero told Greta. “And stop anyone else from getting killed, thank you very much.”
>
Greta cocked a pale eyebrow at him. “Are you any closer than when you began?”
“Yes.” Dominic had confirmed that the hexes from Sloane’s office were drawn by the same hand as those used by Gerald and Barshtein. The necklace at least proved something bad had happened to Isaac in Sloane’s office. Well, proved to Cicero—Ferguson would never accept such flimsy evidence as finding a necklace in a place Isaac was already known to be employed.
Tom had believed. Instantly. Just as he hadn’t questioned when Cicero asked him to close his eyes.
They had to find out what was in those tunnels behind the secret door. Could Isaac be down there, held captive against his will? Or had Sloane and his cronies used the tunnels to spirit him away elsewhere? And what hexes was Sloane waiting on—and why? He seemed to have plenty of absinthe hexes…not to mention the foul ones to find out if a familiar was bonded or not.
Sloane was a familiar himself. The idea he might be capturing unbonded familiars and selling them to unscrupulous witches turned Cicero’s stomach.
Oh God, Isaac. He’d been so patient when Cicero first came to the MWP. He’d ignored the wary hisses, never remarked on how Cicero flinched back whenever anyone came too close. Just taught him what he needed to know about life in the barracks, answered questions, and generally been there. A constant, warm support, giving Cicero the time and space he’d needed to relax. To realize he was safe.
Bad enough Isaac had been beaten half to death by the man who should have been his witch. But if some brute had force-bonded him…
“We’re at least trying to find him, which is more than I can say for anyone else,” Cicero went on, not bothering to hide his increasingly bad mood.
Greta held up her hands. “Don’t hiss at me, cat. I just asked a question.” She propped her elbows on her desk. “How are things with the patrolman? What’s his name again?”
“Thomas Halloran. And they’re fine.” More than fine, really. Cicero had spent far too much time tossing and turning in bed last night, unable to get Tom out of his mind. Not just the feel of his hand on Cicero’s cock, which admittedly he’d thought about quite a bit. Or even the kiss.
“…it would have been wonderful,” he’d said, with open admiration in his voice. As if Cicero had let him glimpse something truly magical.
Well, he had, of course. If they didn’t do it again, the partial bond would fade in time. And if Cicero did it with another witch before then, the tenuous connection with Tom would break in an instant.
Not that it mattered. He certainly wasn’t going to actually bond with Tom Halloran.
Right?
Somehow, the idea that had seemed so unthinkable just days ago didn’t seem half so repulsive now. Tom was…sturdy. Solid. Not at all given to theatrics or explosions of temper.
But why had he lied—or at least hidden the truth—about being a hexbreaker? The talent was too rare not to put to use, not without a damned good reason.
There came a light knock on the half-open door. Tom stood there, dressed in his blue uniform once again.
“Hello, Halloran,” Greta said with a toothy grin. “Nice to see you.” She rose to her feet and indicated her chair. “I’ll take the excuse to leave. Watch out, the cat’s got his fur all ruffled this morning.”
Once she left, Tom maneuvered his wide frame inside and shut the door. “Is something wrong?” he asked cautiously.
“No. I’m just tired. And frustrated.” Cicero gestured to the pile on his desk. “I looked through the rogues gallery and didn’t spot either the fellow we saw with Sloane last night, or anyone named Karol Janowski.”
Tom shifted uncomfortably. “How…how far did you look back?”
“Three years.” Cicero rubbed at his eyes. “Do you think I should have gone farther?”
“Nay! Nay, three years should be fine.” Tom sat down in Greta’s chair; it creaked beneath his weight. “I wonder if we won’t have more luck with the rogues gallery over at police headquarters. The other police headquarters, I mean.”
“I wondered why you wore your uniform. Good thinking.” Cicero paused. “May I ask you something?”
Tom’s expression grew guarded. “What?”
“You and I both know you could parlay your hexbreaking talent into something with better pay and less work than walking a beat. I haven’t told anyone, but why keep it such a secret?”
Tom’s shoulders hunched slightly, pulling at the wool of his ill-fitting coat. “It’s just that…when people know you can destroy most hexes with a touch…some of them want to use you for it. Unsavory types, I mean.”
“Yes, yes.” Cicero waved dismissively. “But it isn’t like you’d ever agree to crack a bank vault, or steal a valuable painting, or whatever sorts of things people get up to.”
The chair creaked again as Tom shifted uncomfortably. His eyes were downcast, focused on his hands rather than Cicero. “Of course I wouldn’t. But it don’t stop them from asking. And some folks make it hard to say no.”
“Oh.” Realization dawned. “Is that why you left Ireland? Blackmail? Someone trying to get you to use your hexbreaking to do something illegal? Were you poncing a fellow you shouldn’t have been?”
Tom’s fair cheeks turned pink. “Um, aye. His family, they wanted him for the priesthood. I couldn’t give in to blackmail, but at the same time I couldn’t let him get in trouble for what we’d both done. So I left and swore I’d never tell anyone else what I could do. And I didn’t. Until you.”
Whatever annoyance Cicero had harbored drained away. No wonder Tom didn’t want anyone to find out. “A lost home and a lost love, due to honor. How poetically tragic,” he mused. “I am sorry, though, truly. I swear I won’t tell anyone else your secret. I still think you’re a bit mad not to take advantage—you might very well be the only hexbreaker in New York—but I won’t tell.”
Tom finally looked up. “Thank you.”
Cicero should have left it there, but the devil had his tongue. “Still mourning your lost love then, Thomas?” he asked lightly, as though it didn’t matter. And of course it didn’t—how could it? It was nothing to him if Tom imagined some other fellow’s mouth on his cock, or a different body pressed against his.
“Nay.” Tom leaned forward, his blue eyes intent on Cicero. “It wasn’t like it is with you.”
Cicero stilled. An odd sort of anticipation curled through his gut, and he couldn’t seem to keep his heart down where it belonged. “And what is it like with me?”
Tom stretched across the desks and slipped his hand around the back of Cicero’s neck. “You know damned well what it’s like,” he said in a low growl that sent a bolt of heat straight to Cicero’s groin.
Tom’s mouth was hard on his, demanding. Cicero parted his lips, sucked on Tom’s tongue when it slipped inside. Tom let out a muffled groan of desire that made Cicero want to sweep everything off the desk and spread himself out for the man then and there. Tom’s hand around the back of his neck was firm, holding him in place while Tom thoroughly explored his mouth. Cicero gave as good as he got, until he could feel Tom’s teeth through the press of their lips.
The kiss turned gentler, then ended with a series of soft little pecks. Cicero nipped Tom’s lower lip, then leaned back with a sigh as Tom’s hand slipped away. Tom’s lips were swollen, his face flushed, his eyes dark with desire. Cicero licked his own lips, and Tom’s gaze fixed on the sweep of tongue.
“You are…” Cicero trailed off and shook his head. “A temptation. A surprise, unlooked for.” He met Tom’s gaze. “What did you mean last night, when you said you were willing to put in the work?”
Tom smiled, and the expression did silly things to Cicero’s heart. “You ain’t like anyone I’ve ever met. And I don’t mean because of the way you dress or the way you dance, or any of that.” Tom shrugged awkwardly. “I’m no good with words, but I want to get to know you better. I want to try giving it to you French. Other things.”
Cicero’s cock stirred and he arched
a brow. “Other things?”
“Things I’ve not done before.” Tom kissed him again, softly. “Like this. You probably think I’m a fool.”
“No more a fool than I,” Cicero said, which was something of an understatement. “Seeing as I want that too.”
Fur and feathers, this was insane. Tom Halloran was big, and rough, and didn’t even know who the bloody hell Oscar Wilde was. They had nothing in common. Nothing to bind them together, except for Cicero’s stupid magic.
Except he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Tom smiled. About his kindness. About the feel of his hand, of his lips.
“But later,” Cicero said, as much to himself as to Tom. “For now, let’s visit the fine fellows at police headquarters and see if they can help us. I do appreciate a man in uniform, after all.”
Tom was a fool.
Phelps had left that note for him last night; he was certain of it. Which meant the bastard had followed Tom home the other day, after spotting him in the restaurant. Maybe followed him otherwise.
His shoulders itched as he led the way down the street to police headquarters, certain there were eyes on him. Phelps wanted revenge, that seemed clear enough. He knew who Tom had been, and he knew who he was now.
Knew he had something to lose.
What if Phelps wanted to blackmail him, like the fellow in the story he’d made up for Cicero? Saint Mary, he’d had a turn there, when Cicero asked why he didn’t want anyone to know of his hexbreaking. If the familiar hadn’t offered him a spark of inspiration, he would have been in trouble. As it stood, he wasn’t sure if he should be proud or shamed he’d concocted a plausible story so quick.
Certainly he couldn’t count on it happening again. The only smart thing to do would be to cut Cicero out of his life, not get more involved with him. He’d meant to do it earlier, remain aloof, maybe even suggest they keep things professional. But he couldn’t stand the possibility Cicero might think him pining for some fellow who didn’t even exist, and kissing Cicero as some kind of poor second best.
Hexbreaker - Jordan L. Hawk Page 10
